I did manage to go fossil-hunting though. Beyond the Cobb and the harbour, there's a stretch of rocky beach where you might get either caught in a mud slide, stuck in the tide, or lauded with international fame and fortune for some paleontological discovery. I've always been one for adventure.
I felt like an astronaut. I had my raincoat on with the hood up, waterproof trousers billowing in the breeze and my rucksack pinned to my back while I carefully navigated over the stones. Slippery rocks and pebbles tend to move when you step on them. On the fossil beach, no-one can hear you scream.
Well, I suppose the teenagers sheltering under an umbrella might have been able to. She wrapped her arms around him and he held the brolly over her head. I guessed that they were more interested in each other though, than the distant cries of a bedraggled spaceman trying to keep his balance twenty metres away.
I didn't find any ammonites or trilobites or tyrannosaur femurs or plesiosaur skeletons or the perfectly preserved and feathered skin of an anklyosaur. In fact, the most interesting thing I found today was a stone with the name HATTIE written on it in permanent marker. I quickly concluded that the Hattie-Stone was not a spectacular prehistoric find and so as the teenagers kissed and the rain hammered onto the rocks, I headed back to the safe bit of Lyme Regis.
It's a very patriotic place, this. There are Union Flags all over the place - probably because of the recent Royal birthday. Although, given the number of 'Vote Leave' posters around, it might just be a less subtle message they're hoping will be visible from the other side of the ocean.
One pub even appears to be continually flying the Royal Standard - you know, the flag that they use to tell you that the Queen's in. I had a quick look inside to check but there was only an old man sipping a pint and a dog tied to a beer barrel. The old man nodded at me in the way that old men in pubs do and I nodded back. It was only on the outside that I twigged the pub was actually called The Royal Standard. That makes sense then, I thought to myself.
What makes less sense is serving a cheesecake on a slate. I wondered whether someone had tried ordering plates but spelled it wrong and thought, oh well, no-one will notice. I tried very carefully not to scrape the fork against it. It was tricky though because the white chocolate and strawberry cheesecake was absolutely delicious. If you ask me, this hipster fad of serving food in recepticles that are not usually suitable for the transport or consumption of food is already getting old.
I wonder who Hattie was. How did she come to write her name in permanent marker on a stone and leave it on a fossil beach? What was her story? In the grand scheme of things is it any different to the tale of tiny creatures being washed up by an ancient ocean and then crushed by mud, millions of years ago?
Well, yes, it probably is - but only because it's a matter of time. I kept the stone in the end. Maybe one day it will remind me that there are always things to be discovered, even when you're looking for something else. Though if you're about to serve a cheesecake, might I recommend a plate?
No comments:
Post a Comment